


Predators

by nakajimagardenar



Series: The One Where You Do Giant Alien Robots [2]
Category: Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: AND THEN THINGS GET DARK AND SKEEVY AND TERRIBLE AND I WOULD BE SORRY IF I WERE A BETTER PERSON, BUT I'M NOT SHRUG EMOJI, Drabble Request, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Smut, THIS STARTED OUT SO NICE AND CUTE AND FLUFFY BUT THEN YOU HAD TO LIKE SOMEBODY ELSE, Yandere!Steeljaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's absolutely charming; eloquent and genteel - Too bad you just had to feel affection for somebody else. No matter, he'll happily fix that oversight for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predators

**Author's Note:**

> People need to stop encouraging me to sin and I still don't know how to write. ( O v O ) b

He’s so charming you think, the first time you meet him. Of course, this is after the initial jolt of terror and disbelief has run its course through your systems - How were you suppose to know the abandoned power plant you’d snuck into on a whim and a dare was currently inhabited by giant alien robots? All in all you’re handling things surprisingly well, and the leader, Steeljaw (you have to smile at a name like that) is talking to you in that rich dulcet voice of his, a large metal finger stroking you from the top of your head to the base of your spine.

He’s a bit heavy handed, and he stares pointedly at your face the entire time - He isn’t as furious as he could be that a human has found their current base, in fact you get the distinct feeling that it’s the exact opposite, and you’re not really sure what to make of that, but at least you’re not dead, and that’s always a good thing. There’s a growing sympathy inside of you when he explains what he and his ‘brothers’ are doing here, and how they only wish to be left in peace to make a home for themselves, away from the harsh judgement of those so called Autobots.

You place one small hand on the steel giant’s thumb (there’s some kind of emotion that reflects briefly in his optics, but it’s gone before you can read it properly), offering him your best smile as you assure him that his secret is safe with you, that you understand and that you want to help. Next to him, the one with the antlers scoffs, unimpressed by your words, by you. Steeljaw blinks, cupping you in his servos and giving the taller Decepticon a look, and you’re suddenly aware of a tension that wasn’t there before, even as Thunderhoof’s posture slips into the defensive, crossing his arms across his chest and chuffing moodishly under his breath.

“Pay him no heed,” Steeljaw whispers against the shell of your ear, and you can’t quite stop yourself from shivering at his proximity (when did he bring you so close to his face). But you nod anyway, and he smiles, all sharp teeth and charming lupine features, before offering to take you home - You’re about to tell him where you live, but he silences you with a velvety laugh, and the sound reaches all the way down to your stomach before settling like lead. He already knows where you live, he says, explaining that he knows all kinds of things about you - one of his subordinates (Fracture, apparently) had already secured your information almost as soon as you’d stumbled into their base.

You aren’t sure how to take that revelation - Wasn’t that some kind of breach against personal privacy? But then again, you yourself had all but barged into the Decepticons’ temporary base, getting away with it with only a minor scare and virtually no consequence. so you shrug it off, chalking it up to some weird cultural thing - Maybe looking into new acquaintances’ information was completely acceptable behavior where they came from, who knows? In any case you watch with no small amount of amazement as steeljaw quite literally transforms, folding into himself and twisting in ways that looked alien and complex, before settling down on fat tires, the passenger side door of his impressive alt mode popping open as if to invite you inside.

To your credit you hesitate but only once before ducking inside and taking a seat, barely settled in when a seatbelt is strapped snug against you (perhaps just a little too tight, but Steeljaw probably just didn’t want you getting hurt) and the sound of a powerful engine revving to life fills your ears and you’re off, rough dirt roads and shady trees melting into smooth concrete and steel when he drives you straight into the city proper, cruising at a pace just below the speed limit.

You pull your eyes away from the window to glance curiously about his interior, and the sound of chuckling tears you from your awe filled thoughts - “Do you like what you see?” He asks you, amusement lacing his words as he all but purrs at your approval, and you find yourself unable to stop from smiling, and the trip back home is a memorable one, filled with stories and anecdotes and witty banter.

You feel your earlier sympathy for the Decepticon and his brethren grow when he shares the fate they’ve all shared, of how they were kept unable to even think or feel, suspended in a kind of sleepy nothingness that sounded terrible even to you, and before you realize it he’s driven you all the way back to your modest home, his door popping open once again in a wordless invitation. You step out, pausing to place a hand against the warm, still rumbling hood of his alt mode, and he freezes at your touch and suddenly there’s a brief moment where you entertain the thought that your touches are unwelcomed, but then he - Somehow, despite being a vehicle, he nuzzles into your hand, warm and deliberate against your fingertips, and you feel your cheeks heat up for a reason you cannot yet understand.

You bid him a hasty goodbye, stealing your hand away from him and shoving it into your pocket (why were you so embarrassed all of a sudden, you didn’t do anything wrong) before turning on your heel and walking up to your front door, fumbling with the lock when you hear him transform - Thankfully, you lived in a relatively unpopulated area of the city, much closer to the woods than to the actual hustle and bustle of the inner metropolis - And you look up to find yourself staring into bright golden optics. You open your mouth to speak, but no words escape you when the Decepticon chuffs wolfishly, the sudden burst of air ruffling your hair and stealing an indignant sound of protest from your lips.

“I only wanted to remember your smell,” Steeljaw explains, amusement flashing in his grin when he steps back to fold into his alt mode once again, and he bids you goodbye before driving back from where he came.

You don’t think about him, about the wild and impossible encounter at the not so abandoned power plant, about how your fingers still remember the warmth of his hood and the steady thrum of his engine. You don’t think much at all for the next few days to be honest, drowning yourself in the comings and goings of a social life that’s exhausting but rewarding, and you spend your days with friends, taking silly photographs of one another to post online and wasting your time in town, late lunches and even later dinners, hitting up clubs and crashing at whomever’s place happened to be the closest. Peaceful days of youth for sure, and you’ve almost completely forgotten about the roguish alien robot until you come home from work to find an all too familiar vehicle parked out on your driveway, idle and unoccupied.

Or so it seemed, but you knew very well that the vehicle itself was more than just a vehicle, and you find yourself rushing up to the Decepticon and - Well there you go again, touching him without permission. Your hands are pressed against the smooth glass of his window, tiny fingerprints marring the otherwise flawless surface, and you make a sound of embarrassment, tugging at your sleeve and rubbing away at the marks. Steeljaw himself doesn’t seem to mind, nudging you away before you can finish and motioning you inside when he opens the passenger side door with an almost affectionate familiarity, and you’re climbing in and getting comfortable before your brain has the time to catch up with your body.

And by then you’re already pulling up behind the power plant, several vaguely familiar faces you recognize as the same alien robots from before peering cautiously at you, but remaining ultimately unconcerned at your presence. You were their leader’s… Whatever you were (a friend, hopefully? You didn’t think he would actually eat you or anything, despite his wolfish appearance), and if Steeljaw brought you here, then they had no reason or right to complain.

But there’s an unfamiliar face, someone new, who pushes past the others to crowd you, oversized pinchers snapping a staccato beat on either side of your head. (…A crab…?) “Who is this, what is this,” He asks carelessly, invading your personal space with the morbid curiosity of a child, and you blink, only to find him sprawled gracelessly across the room and Steeljaw at your side.

The wolf’s second in command makes a sound you can only equate with displeasure, arms crossed over his massive chest as he gives you a look you aren’t sure you deserve, before turning away and ordering one of the other cons in the room to pick the poor, dazed crab up and take him outside. You blink again, looking up at Steeljaw and wordlessly climbing onto the servo he’s offered you, perching somewhat comfortably on his shoulder. you ask him if all that… Rough housing was really necessary, you hadn’t particularly minded the questions the smaller Decepticon had been throwing at you rapid fire, but he cuts you off with a snort, a finger pressed delicately against your lip.

You don’t ask about it again, and Clampdown never so much as looks at you again. Thunderhoof’s disapproval is overwhelming, but you can never seem to understand what it is you’ve done wrong - Maybe he just didn’t like your kind, and unfortunately, there was nothing you could do about that (you’d learn later on though, that his mounting disappointment was never directed towards you).

It’s another series of uneventful days when you’re returned to your home, and you check your phone only to discover about half a dozen voice mails and thrice that many text messages from your concerned friends, and you remember that for some reason you have absolutely no reception at the Decepticon base, despite there being no reason for that to be that case (perhaps they used some kind of signal dampener, you would have to ask Fracture about that when you went back - If you went back, it was really always Steeljaw’s call it seemed). You reply to each and every one with a reassurance that you’re fine - You’ve just taken some time off for yourself you say, if only to placate your worried friends, and you make plans to meet and have lunch in the city proper, and in your good mood you decide to settle down with your computer, signing on to one of your preferred social media sites and updating your status:

Hooking up with friends, you say, adding a number of appropriate emoticons and tagging your said friends, and you’re about to log off when you notice you’ve gotten a new friend request. But when you hover your mouse over the link to check their authenticity, you find no photograph, no entries - It’s an empty account, and it looks like they’ve been snooping around your profile. You snap your laptop shut and push it under the couch.

Unpleasant.

You’re having lunch with friends - Specifically, the friend you’ve been hoping to get closer too, if you get what we mean - In a quaint little bistro when a familiar flash of blue catches your eye, but it’s nowhere to be seen when you turn your head to look out into the street. You’re certain you’ve seen that shade somewhere before, but - No, there’s no way he would be here, of all places, following you around and spying. You get home some time later, and you almost miss the small pile of glittering things on your doorstep - Jewelry? That was odd, had someone accidentally dropped their things all the way out here? Unlikely, considering how close it was to your door, as if the pile had been specifically and thoughtfully laid out in a place that would remain unnoticed unless approached.

You bend over to pick the shiny things off the ground when something sticky sweet hits your sense of smell, and you stagger back with a hand over your nose when the pungent smell sends your head reeling. You bend over again, cautiously peering under the bushes growing lopsidedly around your front door and spot the source of the sickly sugary smell: It’s icing, and cake, and there’s so much of it you’re surprised you hadn’t noticed it right away. It’s been left out for too long, and there are ants everywhere, and the smell is both like sugar and something slowly rotting; disgusting, disgusting. You leave the jewelry where you find it, and you spend the rest of the day making sure all your windows are sealed, and making plans to change all your locks.

You’re woken up on a free day by the sudden sensation of being watched, but as you blink the sleep out of your eyes you find that, unsurprisingly, thankfully; you are all alone in your room, no mystery cake or anything of the like nestled under your covers for you to discover once you’ve woken. No, better yet, you’re greeted by the familiar sight of Steeljaw’s alt mode when you glance outside your bedroom window, and something warm and affectionate bubbles up in your chest, so much so that you have to pull away and press your hands against your face, willing your pulse to steady and your expression to turn into something a little less enthused (god, you feel like a high schooler all over again).

You’re out of your house in record time, hopping into the passenger seat and giving the dashboard an affectionate pat, turning your attentions towards the steering wheel and smiling brightly (for some reason, you always felt it easiest to assume he was watching you from there, even though he’d told you he was watching you from everywhere inside of him). For sure, Steeljaw had become someone endearingly precious to you, as charming as the day you met him all those weeks ago, if not more so; and you can barely contain your bubbling excitement when he tells you that he has a very special something planned for you, just for you, about how much he hopes you’ll enjoy yourself.

It’s impossible for you to be disappointed by anything he might have in store for you, you say somewhat childishly, and you are rewarded with the sound of his dulcet voice chuckling, and suddenly it’s as if every praise in the world was being directed towards you, and in a moment of sheer impulse you close your eyes and lean forward, pressing your lips against the Decepticon insignia resting jauntily on the center of his steering wheel. You don’t pull away immediately, waiting with bated breath to see if he would come to a screeching halt, if he would shudder violently and throw you out, but - There’s no such reaction from the con, in fact, you have to open your eyes and break away to take a breath before he says anything, and his voice is as quiet as you’ve ever heard, deep and drawl and familiar.

“I was beginning to wonder if you didn’t feel the same way,” he says quietly, and you feel something hot and heavy slowly make its way down the length of your back, resting in the small of your back and blossoming in your stomach. You swallow, open your mouth to reply, close your mouth when nothing comes out. You try again, and this time you manage a shaky of course, hands clenched so tightly against your knees you think you might break skin.

All is quiet when you arrive at the power plant - Steeljaw explains that the others have left to give the two of you some privacy, and the unspoken implications of that phrase makes your skin itch and your pulse spike, oh but could he be insinuating - ? You follow him inside, and you’re a little embarrassed to admit the place seems almost lonely without the other cons, but all such thoughts are pushed out of your head when Steeljaw all but herds you into a room in the back, a room you’ve never been to that’s bone bare save for what turned out to be a massive collection of sheets and mattresses, and god, you’re certain you’re as red as Chop Shop’s paint when the wolfish con nudges you over towards the pile, and you sink into the soft material with a slow kind of self consciousness that makes you want to bury yourself under all the covers and never come out.

Not that you have the opportunity, of course, the moment you’re settled in Steeljaw is hovering above you, one servo palm down next to your head and the other pushing your hair away from your face, warm metal fingers brushing against your cheek and tracing along the curve of your chin. The thin material of your clothing easily comes undone under his wandering fingers, and you’re left gasping and naked to shiver under the intensity, the hunger of his stare, and you have to look away to keep yourself from blushing even more than you already are. He makes a sound, guiding your gaze back towards him when he nudges your chin - “so beautiful,” he whispers, and god it feels like you’re on fire, both from shame and from something decidedly shameful, but damn if you aren’t inexplicably attracted to him, and well - He’s attracted to you too, so this is fine, this is okay, you want this.

The Decepticon smiles, all teeth and sharp edges before he leans forward and kisses you, the tip of his glossa running along your bottom lip and prodding to be let inside. You oblige him, laughing breathlessly at your size difference, but it’s a good kind of laugh, full of affection and fondness and how did you ever think of him as anything else but someone you’d want to be with, he was perfect. He nips at your throat, teeth grazing your pulse, burying himself in the gentle slope of your shoulder.

He’s leaving marks, the harsh sucking and almost painful biting leaving your skin inflamed and protesting, but you can’t find it in you to stop him, not when one of his servos had found its way to your chest, cupping soft skin and tracing lazy figure eights against the swell of your stomach. Feather light touches against your hips as he eases you down onto your back, and you’re cast in the shadow of his bulk until you can’t see anything but him, and you don’t want to see anything else but him, and you cry out softly when living metal grasps at your thighs.

You trash uselessly when his lips leave your neck and he buries his muzzle between your legs, tasting you and taking you into his mouth, pulling away to pepper adoring kisses against the skin of your inner thighs, only to slip back down, his glossa stretching you open and, oh god, you’re caught between screaming and laughing when you realize that incessant fuwish-wish-wish is the sound of his tail thumping against the floor, and -

“There’s something I want to show you, before we continue - ” Steeljaw whispers against your body; and you’re disappointment is second only to the curiosity his words spark inside of you, pushing yourself up onto your elbows so you can watch him as he pulls away and digs around the large stack of oil drums you hadn’t noticed before, and - “Oh, here it is!” He sounds positively pleased with himself, and you find yourself greatly confused when he drags one of those barrels towards you, fingers wrapping around your torso and lifting you up so he can have you peer into the depths of the container. the first thing that hits you is the smell - It’s sweet and awful and rotting, not unlike the cake you found by your poor abused bushes some time ago, and at first you’re not sure what you’re looking at, is that -

Oh -

The realization hits you with such force you wince and recoil, and the only reason you manage not to scream is because you’re throat has constricted, and fuck, oh fuck, you know exactly what you’re looking at, you know exactly who you’re looking at - !!

“I was watching you two, you know,” Steeljaw’s tone is jovial, conversational even, and he chuckles; “I saw how well you two seemed to be getting along, and I read online that you rather liked them, and well - that just won’t do, you see. because you’re only for me, and they could never be good enough for you.” You aren’t really listening to him, too caught up with trying to remember how to breath, but that doesn’t deter him in the least - “So of course, I got rid of them, so now you don’t ever have to think about such a waste of space ever again. Now it’s just you and me, as it should be.”

He nods sagely, as if he’s just spilled some unfathomable dollop of alien wisdom on you and not, you know - A body eviscerated and stuffed into a dirty oil can and covered in cake, of all things.

He lays you back down onto the silky soft sheets, kissing the corner of your mouth and rubbing his muzzle against your cheek, but you cannot bring yourself to be responsive, not when you’re still trying to process what he did, what he had said - So you weren’t imagining things at all, and you weren’t going crazy - He really was following you (stalking) you, and he had, he had -

Ahh, there you go. And now you’re screaming, flailing wildly and scrambling to get away from him, kicking out hard enough that your foot connects with his jaw, but whatever satisfaction you might have thought that would grant you is quelled by the pain, and now you’re not just screaming out of fear, but out of pain as well. The Decepticon’s brows furrow, and he reaches out to cup you in his servos - You’re screaming, and you’re shaking, why is that? “Oh, don’t tell me you’re upset,” that voice, once so soothing was now absolutely terrifying, and his concern did absolutely nothing to calm you down. Of course, you yell at him, and you thrash so hard you almost fall out of his grasp, but your indignation only makes him smile, and your yells of protest are drowned out when he kisses you again, swallowing your screams.

You’re still screaming (you don’t think you can ever stop, to be honest) when something wedges itself between your legs, and well that shuts you up, and an all too different fear wells up inside of you when you feel the blunt head of his interface press against you, and - No, fuck no please - !!

He fills you.

He fills you so thoroughly, so impossibly, and your back arches and your hips rise to compensate despite the protests of your mind, and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he starts to move, one servo on your hips, clutching hard enough to bruise, the other cradling the back of your head and he leans in close to whisper soothing words of comfort, confessing how he’d fallen for your strange, alien face the moment he saw you, of how he’d followed you around, filled with jealously and distaste for your friends, at how they casually touched you - You, his perfect precious human, oh how it made him want to take you right there and then.

“But you’re here now,” he croons, hips rolling against yours and stealing a gasp more pleasure than pain from you, and you burned with shame at your body’s betrayal, “I’ll take care of you, because you’re mine, and I always take care of what’s mine.” But you aren’t his, you want to say, you want to push him away and you want to run and run and run until you can’t move anymore, and then you want to run even more, but you can do nothing but take him inside of you when he comes, and oh god, he’s knotting and it hurts, he’s not going to fit - You beg him to stop, blinking desperately and struggling to smile, to act like you want this, like you still want him after everything he’s told you, and please, please -

!!

It’s warm, and thick, and it fills you up to the brim and starts to leak between your legs, and you almost forget everything, and - But no, you never liked cake, you remember suddenly, and you almost laugh. He kisses you again, and this time, this time you kiss him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Come tell me I'm garbage and then send me some drabble prompts (Transformers or Undertale) at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ !!


End file.
